


The Subject Tonight Is Love

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [11]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Drama, F/M, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Jerusalem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Assassin's Creed doesn't mention love. Short fic set between The Length of God's Patience and A Thousand Days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Malik

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place prior to the assassination of Madj Addin and slots neatly between the events of my Malik-centric adventure fics The Length of God's Patience and A Thousand Days. It doesn't stand well alone, so I'd suggest reading The Length of God's Patience first. If that hasn't put you off, on with the story.

_May peace be upon you, in the name of our Creed._

_Yesterday I killed Yusuf al-Asad, Madj Addin's captain of the guards, for reasons I made known to you in my last message. Al-Asad was a vicious man, a tyrant, and a threat to the safety of the Order in Jerusalem. The city is a better place without him._

_Al-Asad's replacement is a man named Abd-ul-Rahman. I believe he may easily be persuaded to our cause._

_I did this with the assistance of my predecessor's informer, the lady Nusaybah bint-Khadijah al-Yerusalem, wife of Rashid ibn Sinan, the weapons merchant, who lives at the Bab Ariha gate._

Malik shook his head. He scoured the parchment to remove the last line and wrote instead:

_I received your last letter ordering the death of the self-styled Regent of Jerusalem, Madj Addin. He is a powerful despot who is well protected by his guards, and a more difficult target than those who have passed before. No doubt you are aware of this._

_I shall await Altaïr's arrival, and your command._

_Safety and peace,_

_Malik al-Sayf,_ rafiq _of Jerusalem._

 _The 10_ _th_ _day of Sha'ban 587, called by the Franj August, 1191._

Malik rolled up the letter and tucked it into his sleeve as he walked outside into the court. He found it easy enough to capture a pigeon from the flock drinking at the fountain. It was an entirely different matter to fasten the letter to its leg with one hand. Malik had never had found a reliable way of securing the messages without the pigeon squawking and messing itself. Pigeons were more trouble even than novices-and Malik considered novices a great deal more trouble than they were worth.

When at last he had fastened the message around the pigeon's leg, he threw the pigeon with rather more force than was strictly necessary into the lapis-blue sky and watched as the relieved bird flew north to Masyaf. When the pigeon had vanished he lowered his gaze and saw a empty oil-lamp of black clay next to the roof entrance to the Assassin's Bureau. His mind returned to the words he had erased from the letter, and then to the ones he hadn't even considered mentioning.

_Once al-Asad was dead, I returned to the Bureau and lay with a woman for the first time since I entered Jerusalem._

Assassins were not forbidden _all_ pleasure, as long as they followed the Creed, but Malik knew that Al Mualim disapproved of such attachments.

He felt as if he stood above a very long drop, the toes of his boots dangling over a void. He suppressed the feeling with an effort and began to clean pigeon feathers from the tiled floor of the Bureau courtyard. The feathers were persistent and Malik briefly entertained the thought of summoning a novice to clean for him before he dismissed the idea out of hand. He'd only have to clean the place again once the novice had finished, and he hated to think what Altaïr would say if the other Assassin found a dropped ring or ankle-bracelet among the cushions in Malik's bureau. Gossip travelled faster than the swiftest pigeon. Better to do things properly, the first time.

He worked as the sun sank from zenith to cast diamond-shaped shadows sharp as knife-blades across the Bureau floor and the heat reduced to something approaching tolerable. There was a simple harmony in mindless labour. Malik wished he could organise his own mind half so easily. He found a silk veil, fine enough to pass through a ring, and tucked it into his sleeve. A faint fragrance clung to the silk that troubled Malik's mind further.

_She is only an informer._

The Assassins collected information from many people for a few reasons; money, or favours, or fear, or a sense of loyalty. Malik was sure that Nusaybah hadn't helped him due to any of those reasons and certain that she hadn't slept with him because of them.

 _And_ , he thought wryly, _I am not so foolish to think myself irresistible. If I-if_ we _-are to continue on this path, I must tread carefully._

He paused in his cleaning to survey the room. Each discarded item-the empty oil-lamp, the crushed pillows, the forgotten scarf-left by chance, or on purpose?- spoke of a different pleasure. When was the last time he had given himself completely to pleasure instead of duty? He couldn't remember.

Yet Malik could recall, with the utmost clarity, the smell of her warm hair, the smile she'd given him when her robes finally fell open to reveal a body honed as a blade, the near-silent gasp she'd given when he-

He hastily turned his mind to other matters. It was a strange situation he found himself in, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses when at the time he'd never felt so completely in command of them.

 _Like leaping from a tower,_ he thought as he dragged the rugs across to make a small carpeted island in one corner of the courtyard.

_Even Hassan i-Sabbah had descendants, so presumably he must have coupled at some point in his life. I have done nothing wrong-unless she is false. And if she is false, I will find her out. I know more about spies than I do about women--and more about women than I did before last night._

_Yet still little enough. As with so many things._

He chased the pigeons out through the trellis on the roof and surveyed his work. It would do.

 _It will have to,_ thought Malik. He sent out for tea and dates from the Street of Bad Food and fetched a ledger, an ink-pot and a quill from the next room. Once the food arrived he wrapped a rug around the teapot to keep it warm before he began to work, turning page after page as the shadows lengthened and the evening sun turned the courtyard into a glory of pale yellow stone.

 


	2. Nusaybah

“Another Assassin?” Munya asked. “You have that look to you.”

Nusaybah ignored her maid and spread her arms. The tunic rasped roughly against her skin, a brief reminder of her younger days. "How do I look?"

Her maid Munya tilted her head and gazed at her mistress critically. "My lady, your skin is too pale, your eyes are too dark, your hair is far too clean, and you still have all your teeth. It's not all that convincing."

Nusaybah picked up a cotton veil of faded Chinese blue and wrapped it around her head. "It doesn't have to be," she said as Munya clucked and came to her aid, her henna-stained fingers wrapping and tucking precisely. "I won't be on the streets for long."

"You had better not be," Munya said accurately if not tactfully, "or you'll get more than you bargained for." She tugged on the veil more tightly, Nusaybah thought, than was strictly necessary. "That is, if you haven't already had it already."

"That is none of your business," Nusaybah said sharply. "And that is tight enough."

Munya gave the veil a final tug before she stepped back. "If it's not too bold-"

Nusaybah rolled her eyes. Nusaybah had been her maid for years; they knew each other well. "Pass me the mirror."

Munya handed her a brass-backed mirror. "May I be permitted to say that this is not a good idea?"

"You may." Nusaybah teased out strands from the frayed hem of her veil with her fingertips. "I, on the other hand, shall continue in my path." She set the mirror down and met her maid's gaze with eyes for once devoid of kohl. "Why the hesitation? You and I have done this for years. You did not mind before."

"Mahmoud was different," Munya said.

Nusaybah gave her scarf a final tug. "Yes," she said. "He was. I shall be back soon. Peace be with you."

She heard Munya's parting sniff through two planks of wood as she closed the iron-hinged door. The Assassin's Bureau was in the richest quarter of Jerusalem, but Nusaybah was careful nonetheless. The streets were safer than they had been under the Crusaders, but women alone were seen as legitimate prey by many. Thankfully it was not far to the Bureau. Nusaybah kept to the shadows until she reached Pearl Street. The shabby appearance of the alley belied its glittering name, a remnant of the old days when the district had been part of the jewellers' souk. These days everybody called it the Street of the Booksellers.

The Bureau was the last shop in the street, and it was easy to miss. There was no sign. A customer might even think that the Bureau had no door at all. There was a door, of course, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. But it was there.

Nusaybah pushed the door open and walked into the Bureau. The room was quiet and refreshingly cool after the heat and bustle of the street outside. Dust sparkled in the last rays of the sun that pierced the barred windows. Nusaybah ran a hand across the heavy desk and examined her fingers critically.

"If you're going to enter, you could at least close the door," a male voice snapped from the courtyard.

Nusaybah wiped her hand upon her robe. She closed the door behind her on the city. Then she took a deep breath and ducked underneath the carpet that separated the two rooms.

Malik sat in one corner, cross legged like a tailor. He looked up as Nusaybah let the curtain fall back behind her and studied her for a moment before he laid down his pen.

"May peace be upon you," he said.

Her heart leaped in anticipation as she sat down on the carpet opposite him. "Upon you, peace," she murmured.

He snorted. "I doubt it," he said, reaching forwards to unfold a carpet-covered bundle that lay in the centre of the mats.

Nusaybah leaned forwards. She was not sure what she expected. When he uncovered a still-steaming teapot, she could have laughed with relief. Not even Assassins would offer food or drink to one they intended to harm.

He poured her a cup, awkwardly, his left arm lost in the shadows, and she watched as fragrant drops spilled onto the carpet. She wondered whether to reach out and touch his hand as he handed her the cup, to try and recapture some of that lost intimacy. Before she had decided he slid the cup across the carpet rather than handing it to her and so the moment was lost. No matter. There would be other opportunities.

The tea, she discovered, was bitter. She drank it anyway. When she was done she lowered the cup elegantly to the floor and glanced up to see if Malik was watching her. He wasn't. He had turned back to his work, marking a few papers before setting them aside.

She pointed at the papers, rotating her wrist so that her bracelets chimed and her sleeve slid down her arm to reveal soft skin. "How goes your work?"

He gave a wry smile. "Slowly."

Nusaybah looked around the courtyard. This late in the day, it was a cool, dark well, high walls blocking off the sights and smells of the city. A small fountain set in the south wall murmured softly providing cool air and privacy from eavesdroppers. It had probably been the private courtyard of a much larger home- a haram, perhaps, or a hall for entertaining.

She turned her gaze back to Malik. He looked down at his papers, though she had a feeling that he was watching her all the same. It irritated her that he would not meet her eyes. Respect for women had its place, but there was no point worrying about adultery of the eyes when they had already committed adultery of the body.

The second cup of tea was no better than the first. Nusaybah sipped the lukewarm liquid and used the time to price the furnishings. She doubted the whole bureau together was worth more than ten dinars, though the books would fetch a little more. When even that entertainment paled, she began to study Malik, glancing flirtatiously through her eyelashes in case he looked up and noticed. He didn't.

He had the patchy beard and hawkish face of a tribesman; both common enough; and none of the excess flesh that was the hallmark of a successful businessman. There were a dozen tells on him, if you knew how to look-his missing arm, a once-broken nose, the calluses beneath the ink-stains on his right hand, the way he held himself-but if she hadn't known he was an Assassin, she probably wouldn't have bothered to look.

She guessed that that was the idea.

He looked up and she caught his eyes, which were crow-black and very clever.

"Shall we dance?" she said, on impulse.

"I think not."

"Ever again?" she said.

"That depends on you."

"I rather think it depends on both of us," she said.

He put his pen down and pinched his nose, leaving a smear of ink upon his cheek. "Of course. Forgive my disrespect. I am tired."

She smiled. "No doubt."

He took a drink of tea, seeming not to notice the flavour. "Why are you here?"

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Yes. You do. Don't pretend I'm too irresistible for you to pass up." His mouth quirked, just a little, into an expression that she suspected would have been open bitterness on another man.

"I want to serve the Assassins," she said.

He shook his head. "Walk in my shoes. I am the Mentor's sole representative in Jerusalem, city of one god, three faiths and some three thousand people, with a handful of _fidai'in_ and a scattering of useless novices to help me. Our enemies have been searching for the Bureaus for years and they have never even come close to finding even one. I have a responsibility. And I have nothing else that you would be interested in."

"You do not know what I am interested in," she said.

"You know the Creed?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you know that we must never compromise the Brotherhood. Never. Do you understand? Even if I have to give my life-or the lives of others -I must protect the Creed."

"I know how your Order works," Nusaybah said, She was starting to get exasperated. Did he think she had chosen this path lightly? "I have aided them for years."

"Most soldiers spare women and children. If they think you're a threat..." His eyes flicked up . "They'll just kill you. Faster than you'd kill a chicken."

"I have never killed a chicken in my life!" Nusaybah protested, and he smiled. Just a small smile, but it was a start. "I know the risks. I have informed for the Assassins for ten years," she said, waiting for the inevitable reassessment of her age. It did not come.

"Why did you start?" he asked instead.

"Where do I begin?"

"I have always found the start a good place," he said with such a straight face she could not begin to fathom if he was joking or not.

She reached forwards and poured another cup of tea. The leaves were beginning to appear in the base of the cup. "My family is from Persia , near Alamut. There we learned of the Assassins."

"Your family were Assassins?"

"Hardly, although I did hear rumours of an great-grand-uncle. And it was said that my many times great-grandmother was the woman Omar Khayyám and Hasan-i-Sabbah both fought for, and Khayyám won. We were merely peasants." She did not like to admit to it, even all these years later.

"I thought you'd never killed a chicken?"

"If only that were true. My family left Persia when my grandmother was young and settled in a small village near Jerusalem. I was born under Crusader rule.

“That can't have been an easy life.” He was a good listener, although it looked as if he'd had to practice.

She shrugged sinuously. “They weren't bad. We paid less taxes than Persians did under the Muslims. I was married at sixteen. A good match, on paper. Less so in practice. I persuaded him to agree to divorce. When the money from the settlement ran out, I sold myself.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “I was fortunate. I soon learned how to charm money from men and I found myself a good house, run by people I could trust. And then I met Mahmoud.”

“Mahmoud?”

“Your predecessor. He was a good man. He taught me the Creed, and I learned that there were many ways of hiding in plain sight. I became an informant, and remained so for years.”

“Yes.” he said. “I've been meaning to ask you about that.” He looked a different person in the lamplight: older, fiercer, more dangerous, and for the first time Nusaybah felt unease at being alone with an Assassin in the swiftly darkening courtyard. “What's in this deal for you? The people fear us.”

She reached or the teapot like a shield. “Once your eyes have been opened,” she said as she poured tea deftly, proud that her hands did not shake, “can you close them again? You need information. I seek the satisfaction of doing what is right.”

He did not look convinced. As she passed him the cup his fingers brushed her wrist. She shivered. He closed his eyes briefly, but his expression did not change.

“Your Jerusalem is a different place to mine,” he said. “In mine, nobody does anything without a reason.”

Nusaybah smiled. “Then your Jerusalem must be a very lonely place,” she said.

 

 


End file.
